Jacquot and the Waterman (76 page)

The uncertainty threw him off balance, just as Jacquot had intended. But he still clung on, desperate to keep control of the conversation, desperate to keep his wife from finding out about his mistress.

He began nodding, as though he'd just remembered something. 'Cuvry, you said? Cuvry. Yes, yes ... I do certainly recall the name . . . But,
but. . .
You know something? I'm wrong. I've got it wrong. Not Human Resources. Not at all. Come to think of it, I believe she might have helped us with some contract work. Some consultancy, perhaps. This gift, this . . . letter-opener must have been a kind of thank-you. That sort of thing, for helping us
out...
I can't actually remember buying it, but if you have my credit-card payment slip, Chief Inspector

So Basquet
had
bought the letter-opener. Or, at least, he hadn't denied buying it. Which
meant. . .

Jacquot let the moment hang, then moved on: 'Might I ask where you were last night, Monsieur?'

'Last night? Sunday, you mean?' asked Basquet.

'That's correct. Say, from nine in the evening onwards?'

'Why, here, of course.' He looked at his wife, who nodded helpfully. 'Céléstine was at a dinner party,' he continued, clearing his throat. 'Friends. The Fazilleaux. In Aix. I'm afraid I didn't fancy it, so I cried off. . . stayed home. Did some work here in the library and then went to bed.'

The clearing of the throat, like his turning to look through the window when Jacquot told him the name of the murder victim, was enough for Jacquot to know at once that Basquet was lying. Or rather, not telling the whole truth. His wife might have gone out to dinner, and he might have cried off, but Jacquot doubted that Basquet had spent the evening working here at his desk. He'd gone out as well. To Endoume? To call on Anais Cuvry?

There was something else, too. For the first time since they'd told him about the murder, Jacquot could see that Basquet now realised it was no longer just a matter of keeping his wife from finding out about his mistress. It was the sudden, chilling realisation that he was a murder suspect.

'So you were in bed when your wife returned home?' continued Jacquot, keeping up the pressure.

'That's right. That's right,' stammered Basquet, reaching across to snap on a desk lamp in the gathering gloom. The pool of light that splashed across the desk made the rest of the room grow suddenly darker. Jacquot couldn't have wished for better stage management.

'Asleep?'

'Dead to the world,' Basquet's wife answered for him, leaning forward to put out her cigarette. 'And snoring like a lion. I had to sleep in our son's room.'

'And that would have been at what time, Madame?'

asked Jacquot, turning in his chair to face Basquet's wife.

'I'd say, oh, around eleven.'

'And you, Madame,' continued Jacquot lightly. 'Did you go straight to bed? After you returned from your dinner party?'

'I had a glass of warm milk in the kitchen, then went upstairs to bed.'

'To your son's room, you said?'

'To ours first. But it wasn't easy getting to sleep . ..' She gave a little laugh, smiled forgivingly at her husband, then twirled the ice in her glass.

But Basquet, Jacquot noted, did not return the smile. He was looking at his wife intently, a puzzled frown forming, as if he was trying to remember something, as if something didn't quite add up, the lines on his face thrown into stronger relief by the play of the light.

'So from eleven onwards,' continued Jacquot, registering Basquet's frown, his silence, 'you were both here, asleep? In different rooms?'

Madame Basquet nodded. 'That's correct, Chief Inspector.'

'Tell me, Madame,' said Jacquot. 'And please forgive the forthright nature of this question . . .' He paused, drew a breath, let the moment stretch into expectant silence. 'Tell me,' he continued at last. 'Did you know that Anais Cuvry was your husband's mistress?'

'Good God, man . . .' exclaimed Basquet, leaping to his feet, eyes wide with indignation.

'If you wouldn't mind, Monsieur,' said Jacquot, holding up a hand, but never taking his eyes off Madame Basquet for a second.

'But I do mind. I mind a lot,' spluttered Basquet, rapping his fists against the blotter on his desk. 'Coming here . . . coming to my home with these. . . with these outrageous allegations . .

'Yes, I did know,' came Madame Basquet's voice, quiet, resigned.

Her words stopped Basquet in his tracks. He turned and looked at his wife. Then, stunned, he reached back for his chair and lowered himself into it.

Jacquot knew how he must have felt. All that effort to keep it from her - here, this evening, and for however long the affair had been going on - and she'd known the whole time!

Jacquot pressed on. 'And how long have you known?'

'From the beginning, Chief Inspector.' She leant forward to put her drink on the coffee table, then sat back and composed herself. Calmly she returned Jacquot's gaze. 'What do they call it?
Cinq à sept?'
She gave another of her little laughs, a touch more brittle this time. 'I believe it's quite common. Men of a certain age.'

'And how did you feel about your husband's . . . activities?'

'So long as it didn't upset the status
quo ...
So long as the children didn't find
out. . .'
Céléstine shrugged, spread her hands. 'And she was nothing special.'

'So you knew Mademoiselle Cuvry? You met her?'

'No. I
mean ...
I know my husband. It is probably not the first time he has . . . strayed. And it probably wouldn't have been the last. It was
just. . .
not important. I'm sure you understand, Chief Inspector.' She waved her hand, as if at a fly. Inconsequential.

But Jacquot was not convinced by Madame Basquet's quietly dignified admission, nor by her calm acceptance.

There was something up ahead. He could smell it. Almost taste it. He pressed on.

'Tell me, Madame. Do you drive?'

Basquet's wife nodded, then looked perplexed - as though she couldn't quite see where this was headed, what Jacquot was getting at. She didn't have to wait long.

'Might I ask what kind of car, Madame?'

'A Citroen, a Xsara,' she replied.

Jacquot nodded.

'It might interest you to learn, Madame, diat a Citroen Xsara was seen on Avenue Corbusier. In Endoume, where the victim lived. Late last night. A man walking his dog reported seeing it.'

Of course it was a lie, but Jacquot had played the same game with her husband - the signature on the credit-card slip - and that had worked, so he saw no reason not to tiy it with Basquet's wife. Just a bluff, to unsettle her. That was all it was.

'And later a Citroen was seen on the Corniche road,' he continued. 'Parked on the flyover above Vallon des Auffes. Where Mademoiselle Cuvry's body was dumped.'

For a moment there was silence in the room as the implication took shape in their minds.

Céléstine Basquet shivered, pulled the sleeves of her cardigan around her.

'I can't imagine what you mean,' she began, but her voice faltered. 'If you're suggesting, Chief Inspector . . .'

'I think, Madame, you know exactly what I'm suggesting.'

'This is getting ridiculous,' began Basquet, but Jacquot could see that his interruption was half-hearted; the man didn't know what else to say, how else to proceed. Basquet knew something they didn't. Something about his wife. Something to do with their sleeping arrangements.

And that was enough for Jacquot.

He slid his hand into an inside pocket and drew out the plastic bag, reached across and laid it on Basquet's desk. There was a dull clunk as the weighty silver-gilt letter- opener wrapped inside the bag came into contact with the wooden surface.

The effect was exactly as Jacquot had wished. Both Basquet and his wife stared at the object with horrified fascination, the gold handle and silver blade glinting in the light, a smear of blood still visible on the inside of the plastic.

'The murder weapon,' said Jacquot. 'You, of course, will have seen it before, Monsieur.'

But Basquet didn't speak.

Which Jacquot had expected.

'And so will you, Madame,' continued Jacquot, turning towards Madame Basquet, leaning his elbows on his knees. 'Last night. In Anais Cuvry's home. When you went round to confront her. After dinner. When your husband was asleep. To scare her off? To save your marriage? The letter-opener you snatched up when she refused to play ball. The same letter-opener that your husband bought for Mademoiselle Cuvry, a gift you couldn't have known about.'

Madame Basquet straightened her back, raised her chin, clasped her hands in her lap. But said nothing.

Jacquot turned to Basquet. 'I think, Monsieur, that you should call your lawyer.'

Basquet dragged his eyes from his wife, and looked blankly at Jacquot.

'My lawyer?'

'Or maybe your wife has her own?' Beside him, Gastal sniffed, sat back in his chair and pinched the creases in his trousers.

Tuesday

The Widow Foraque fed her two canaries, Mittie and Chirrie. Pouring seed into their bowls, changing the water in their cups, twittering at them as she did so, she waited for footsteps on the stairs.

He'd come home late the night before, long past midnight. She'd heard the key in the latch, the screech of the door, the scuff of his shoes across the tiled hall. She listened from her bed, lifting her head from the pillow so that she could bring both ears into play. And there it was, she was pleased to note, a lightness to the step. As she settled back, Madame Foraque decided her tenant was finally on the mend.